


All the Faces of the Evening

by Filigranka



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Politics, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-08-28 20:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16730343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: They come from the same planet - it doesn't change anything (it matters too much).





	All the Faces of the Evening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adsecula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adsecula/gifts).



The view from the balcony of Senator Rorima’s floating house is splendid, the place it’s moored this time – carefully chosen. High above the Senate and the whole government district, reminding them all of their positions and the game they play. The stakes of it.

The jewel of the galaxy, Coruscant, her luxury, galleries, museums, theatres and operas, her high technology, her rich history, her _peace_. The stability she promises – promised, all these centuries ago – and symbolises.

It also reminds them all that last years have made this promise empty, shaking the very foundations of the Republic. Padmé’s not going to deny this, she just disagrees with the means Rorima’s clique  advocate to help the situation – limiting clone rights even further, pushing the Jedi Council to send younger and younger Jedi to the front, curtailing the debate in the Senate…

And also, looking at all these lights and slim, sky-threatening buildings, shining like lightsabers, like frozen blaster bolts, forever aiming at the sky – weren’t they all built to spite and threaten the gods themselves, as the legends of Coruscant’s slums go – she can’t help wondering how many of these Senators, entrepreneurs and businessbeings have ever seen the war from the front lines. How many of them visited the devastated planets and cities. How many of them had blasters aimed at their heads, how many stood at the centre of an arena, the crowd hateful, violence-excited howling filling their ears, how many had to fight – for their people, for their ideals, for their lives – _if_ any of them had to do this at all.

She knows the answer. It makes her bitter. It makes her proud, too proud perhaps, verging on arrogance. And a queen should never look down at her citizens.

But these aren’t her citizens. They’re the representatives of other planets and they should bear the responsibility. They should stand between the blaster bolts and their planets' civilians, the children entrusted into their care. Those who chose to flee, those who chose the safe comfort of Coruscant – those were the ones shaking the Republic’s foundations. Betraying the source of their own power, the reason behind their rights and privileges, the very same thing which gave them the chance – the choice – to hide themselves on Coruscant, instead of staying on the war-torn planets, facing the droid armies.

 

(‘Cowards’, he mutters during their kisses, like usual, making Padmé wonder if it’s a habit or a counter-espionage measure; perhaps both. His caresses and his words are travelling up – her fingers, her palm, her wrist, her arm – like silk, so light, so quiet, ‘their impotence stems from their fear… Ah, we both know what they’re afraid of. What does “the republic” mean if not “the commonwealth”? What are we left with, then, if we forget about the common people?’

They’re seeping through her skin, her muscles, her bones, straight into her heart and lungs, quickening her pulse, making her breaths more erratic. Anger. Passion. Desire, and not for the Chancellor, not for anyone’s body, not even for her own pleasure, only for justice and peace, and - and for things to make sense, perhaps. 

Padmé relishes the feeling, lets his words dress her up, make her ready, full of arguments, rhetorical devices and conviction. There’s a speech to be given this afternoon, an important one, one which needs to be parroted by the holonet in every corner of the galaxy. “Solidarity,” she will say, “what’s left of the commonwealth, if we forget about solidarity, about all of the common people, the citizens, who suffer because of the war on both sides? What are we left with, when we turn our gazes away, afraid of looking at their suffering?” She will _tell them_ , but for now, she catches Palpatine’s chin before his lips touch her neck.

Servants, droids, even walls have ears and recording devices, after all. And she’s not sure how much control she has over her voice.)

 

They all chose wrong. Coruscant’s blasters are indeed frozen. Impotent bastards, tying their own hands just to avoid any – just like it was when Naboo –

‘The sight is beautiful, I agree’ Palpatine’s voice startles Padmé from her thoughts; the gentlest rebuke possible. The silk of his clothes touches her bare arm, slides along a shoulder blade.

It’s nothing. Neither of them would dare to do more, not in public, not anywhere in the Core. And even in the Rims, on their beloved Naboo, all they usually indulge themselves with is – a stolen kiss, a shoe wandering up her leg under the table during a party, her putting a foot in his lap during some trade negotiations and pressing down, hard; both of their hands falling in not exactly proper places during formal greetings. Ceremonial kisses, a citizen to one of the former queens, taking a moment too long. This, now – it’s nothing. Yet she shivers lightly.

‘Indeed. It reminds me of what we protect, of what we serve and answer to,’ she answers easily, but reproaches herself in her thoughts.

She has fallen silent for too long. Rumours might arise. Senator Naberrie seems tired lately. Sad. Melancholic. Perhaps a meeting with a therapeutic droid would be in order. Perhaps she should get some rest, spend some away time from the exhausting politics of Coruscant. She's already given her people so much. She shouldn’t be asked for more, not when she’s so clearly overburdened. Or, perhaps, the war is going worse than they tell us. Maybe some of her bills and projects are endangered. Maybe it’s about her mother's fragile health…

Naboo, with its rather long democratic traditions, resembles Coruscant in this way: every breath you take, every move of your muscles, your words and your silence both – everything could be overnalysed and used as a political weapon. No way to fight with the rumour mill; the harder you strike against them, the stronger the whispers become, the finer the mill grinds down your bones. You can only make your best to not let them start and counter them with gossips of your own, the more… outrageous the better.

‘It’s not always easy to be both the servant and the protector. Especially of the galaxy and all of her citizens,’ says Palpatine after a proper moment of thoughtful silence.

He puts his hand over his heart, briefly, pretending to smooth some crease there. For a moment, his grip of the fabric tenses and relaxes in a series of calm motions, resembling a beating heart or breathing lungs. “Naboo”.

The sign language of their home’s nobility. The one not only nobles, but also their servants and everybody interested in the politics knows – on Naboo. The Core worlds have never paid enough attention to either of the Rims to become aware of its existence. That didn’t change even after Palpatine became the Chancellor.

They’re both sure the whole floating villa is tapped, with tons of bugs and bug-silencers alike – and they know the former always win. There are hidden cameras everywhere, too, of course. And yet those who will analyse them will, in Padmé’s experience, completely miss the whole sign language thing, miss all the little Inner Rim details.

That’s why she should never be arrogant. Vanity blinds.

‘You have to serve the galaxy,’ she reminds him. ‘I’m the Senator of Naboo. My duties, fortunately, are of a lesser scale. And yes, it’s sometimes so hard to serve the citizens and govern them, depend on their vote and protect them… from themselves, as it quite often happens. I can only imagine how difficult it is to do the same for the whole galaxy and its myriads of contrary interests. How strong the temptation…’ She trails off,  It’s no secret, of course. Fighting for the good of one planet, even putting it before the common good, became the supposed role of the Senators a long time ago.

It’s also no secret that it puts her at odds with the Chancellor. Palpatine should have forgotten his previous alliances – his people, his traditions, his home – the moment he was elected. He was supposed to be the neutral judge of all those individual planetary interests.

Of course, this rule has long been considered dead. Previous Chancellors had no problems with openly favouring their own planets, families, friends and companies. Padmé's found it despicable, in general – but most of the previous Chancellors came from old Core families. If Palpatine was to use his position for the good of the Rims, repairing the centuries of the neglect… Well, it would hardly be favouritism or nepotism. Just mending old wrongs. Something the Core-born Chancellors should have done earlier.

Padmé can’t say she isn’t grateful for some extra funding now and then for Naboo’s post-war restoration or “researching Gungan culture” projects. Still, Palpatine has always been careful to maintain the face of the unbiased judge, the truly neutral Chancellor, like those from old, better times, when the Republic stood young, strong and uncorrupted. This image granted him universal popularity – and allowed for his _many_ re-elections.

He has never  risked sullying it, not once, not with their home planet's nobles and politicians, not even with her. There must be some agenda in his sudden admission, Padmé thinks, mentally skimming through all the bills currently in the making. There’s one about delegating workers outside of the company’s home system, the discussion about setting their wages and recognising their rights, should it be done either by the laws of their native system or the one they’re delegated to – a bill which could strike right into the core of the Rims’ economy. But it’s also supported by the all-beings' rights organisations, claiming it will make easier to free the slaves “delegated” to the Core; or, at the very least, stop the Core companies from profiting from their labour. Yet it will also make it harder for Rim-based companies to break into Core markets, even for those not using slaves, and Padmé knows that’s the main force behind the bill, not any gentle soul's concern.

It's a huge bill, written and re-written for years, halted by war, but recently it re-appeared in the media and on the Senate’s agenda, the shining proof that the Core – Coruscant, the Senate – wants something for its involvement in the war.

Padmé’s of two minds about the bill – and perhaps it’s about this. Perhaps it’s more general. Perhaps Palpatine wants to assure her that whatever he does, it’s for the good of their homeplanet, and therefore she should support his stance.

‘I hope you see how the wellbeing of the Republic means… ensures the peace and prosperity of Naboo,’ he says.

She nods. Nowadays, only a Separatist would answer differently, express any doubt.

 

(‘Believe me, what happens in our high security prisons,’ Palpatine tells her once, when they’re alone, hidden behind an anti-electronics curtain, and so she dares to ask, ‘is much, much kinder than dying from starvation. Is much kinder than the fate to which their allies were willing to sentence Naboo, in their “collateral damage” frenzy. And so, while as the Chancellor I care about their fate and ensure their basic rights are intact, as the former Senator of Naboo, her faithful son and admirer of her wonders–‘ She might smile, if not for his next words, ‘I can’t help but ask myself, is it not _too kind_?)

 

‘I saw it with my own eyes’ This old, limited to Naboo phrase is almost too blunt an opening, but his hidden signs weren’t subtle either.

She witnessed him coming to power to save their planet and the Republic both. With her own eyes, indeed. Padmé opens her palms, shows Palpatine the inner side of her wrists for a moment, then shapes her hands into a little pyramid as she puts them down on the railing. An affirmation of trust, yes, but also a question.

She suspects it’s a strange one, especially in the context of their – their –

 

(She can’t find a proper word for this thing, all those smiles and prolonged touches, those too few kisses, sometimes brief, caught in corridors, in bathrooms or dressing rooms, Padmé high on adrenaline at the thought that somebody might see them, their sealed lips brushing against each other. Sometimes their kisses are violent, almost drawing blood, leaving bruises they both have to cover under their clothes. Sometimes, when they’re alone, before Senate meetings, “talking politics”, both of them only half-dressed, caught between private robes and formal attires, sometimes their hands get lost in layers of fabric, their kisses last longer, land lower and lower, and lower – it’s close, it’s always so close to becoming the normal thing, the usual kind of secret affair: sex, secret meetings, double-meaning holocalls. But one of them always mutters something about politics, rumours, their duty, their ruined image – Naboo’s ruined image – then breaks apart and walks away, quickly, to find something cold to put on their rose-tinted cheeks.)

 

Well. They’re both married to politics, she supposes.

Palpatine continues with some meaningless political small-talk, which should make whoever will analyse their recoding certain Padmé’s idealistic to a fault and both her and Palpatine’s positions are terribly boring pro-Republic propaganda. Whoever listens to it won’t believe it for a second, of course, but should conclude they’re not conspiring with each other. Not about current matters, at least.

His signs tell a different story. There’s “trust me”, a plea or a command, and a muddled, purposefully she’s sure, sign suspended between the “my queen” and “my love”. She doesn’t answer his hands, only his words, lets her own fall from her mouth – polished, well-rounded, meaningless – with a tint of thoughtful reflection. The lack of answer is also a clear sign, after all. And she respects Palpatine too much to deceive him.

If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t let it show. When she claims tiredness and asks for his arm, he offers her one in a smooth, elegant move, drilled into them both in the firsts years of their lives. Devoid of any sensuality.

‘Your… idealism and attachment to the Republic’s vision,’ he starts after a second, watching the never-blinking eye of Coruscant’s light, artificial sun, beneath them, ‘shine brighter than this planet, Senator. A wonderful ally. A dangerous enemy. If Separatists were right about anything, it was their recognition of your utmost importance for the Republic. Were you assassinated, this war would probably have ended before it began.’ There’s no smile to soften the words on Palpatine’s face, no irony in the cadence of his words, but the corners of Padmé’s mouth rise.

‘I’m going to take this as a compliment, Chancellor.’

He hasn’t suggested anything like “love” again and this is the biggest part of her pleasure. A compliment, indeed.

He lifts his fingers to his mouth, presses them to his lips – like someone deep in thought – before smiling and moving them to put a lock of Padmé’s hair behind her ear, brushing against her temple and cheekbones. For a brief moment, before his face melts into the usual image of gentle strength, he looks almost sad.

‘And you’re of course correct.’

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: my dearest invisible_cities.


End file.
